


Sweet Child o Mine

by paintpaw



Series: Sunset Sasha [2]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Found Family, Gen, Great Khans - Freeform, Headcanon, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, The Great Khans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:06:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25038958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paintpaw/pseuds/paintpaw
Summary: Kids don’t deserve this life. The unforgiving nature of the world around them, everything from the people, the wildlife, the sun in the sky. Many didn’t survive, and those who did were often calloused by the harsh world around them. Papa knew he was one of those people.Further exploration of a part in Six Months Since Bitter Springs wherein Sasha meets Papa Khan for the first time
Series: Sunset Sasha [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1813387
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	Sweet Child o Mine

2257

Another day, another NCR camp raided. 

Most of them had been left alive, but with no guns or supplies and their radio thoroughly destroyed, they weren’t going to last long. Especially if the Vipers or Jackals swept the area, picking at the scraps left by the Khans like carrion birds. 

Vipers demanded human sacrifice--Jackals were just plain cannibals. The Khans knew the fate they were leaving that camp to. They didn’t care.

In the eyes of the Khans, it’s what the NCR deserved. It was no longer petty raiders against newly formed law bringers. The Khans--the Great Khans--had moved past that. This was a new tribe, one with raiding deep in their bones, trying to keep their family fed. These so-called law bringers were little more than raiders themselves, rolling over towns and demanding payment from their inhabitants. 

The NCR was just a target, one with old rooted mutual hatred. Papa Khan himself knew that better than the rest, that’s why he spearheaded these raids.

The sun was high in the sky as the raiding party made their way back across the desert. The bandanas around their necks and leather nailed to their helmets did well to protect them from the sun’s rays, but nothing against the overbearing heat. Soon they’d have to seek shady shelter and rest--wait for the sun to yield. 

Papa Khan scans the horizon. They’d probably have to walk a mile or so more before coming across a cave or abandoned building. So far there's nothing except the highway and burnt-out cars.

That’s not what the crows overhead seemed to believe, however. They circle in the sky, calling each other, fluttering around. 

Survival instincts had taught all the Khans that crows only called like that when they’d found food--some large dead animal. That also means ‘ _watch out for the thing that killed that animal_ ’. 

His eyes trace the empty desert for that very animal. Could be something like a coyote--easy enough to frighten away. Or, it could be a deathclaw. Either way, it was good to stay alert on the trail.

He follows one crow as it dips down out of the sky and onto the ground. There, it hops towards a little heap on the baked earth that Papa hadn’t noticed before. It pecks what it assumes to be its next meal.

Papa squints. He can’t quite make out what animal that is.

It’s only when he starts to pick out details--the thin arms and legs, mess of hair on it’s head--does he realise that it’s a body.

 _Oh no_.

It’s not just a body. It’s a _little_ body--a kid. Skinny as all hell, the rags of his clothes hanging off him. Couldn’t have been much older than five, from the size of him. 

Papa raises a fist and his raiding party halts. They’re quick to work out what caught his attention, and soon gather at the side of the road. He doesn’t wait, already stepped off the cracking tarmac and trekking out towards the body. The crows take off at the sight of him. 

Kids don’t deserve this life. They were innocent. Victims, mostly. Victims of war, hate, abuse. None of those things are in short supply here. 

He can’t control the will of his people, but he can tell them that if he catches them firing at children he’d have them executed.

It was a miracle when the Khans started having children. For Papa, it marked a point of which they were no longer simple raiders. He’d learnt how to look after children the same way he’d learnt to fire a gun. It was something he was so known for, his ability to rear and protect their children. Hell, he’d gotten pretty good at delivering babies too. 

It was the very title his people had given him. 

Papa walks slowly, not wanting to imagine how this poor kid had died. Not only died but been left by his family. 

But the moment Papa’s shadow falls upon his face, the kid stirs, blinking in the new shade. 

There’s a brief moment where the two of them are just staring at eachother. The kid’s breathing hitches and he weakly moves to sit up--his little twig-like arms shaking under his own weight. One of the Khans whispers a ‘ _holy shit_ ’ that voices Papa’s thoughts perfectly. 

“Hello.” Papa knows he looks and sounds like a fearsome raider, and does what he can to soften the rumble of his voice. 

The kid doesn’t say anything, just stares right up at him. He pulls his legs into his chest and hugs himself. From this angle, Papa can see the raw sunburns on his shoulders and arms. He’s been out here a while.

Papa lowers himself to a kneel to get on the kid’s level. Those dark, fearful eyes watch him all the way down. 

“You’re all alone out here. Are you…” It feels stupid to ask really, “..okay?”

No response, other than the kid looking away. His eyes trace the other Khans behind Papa--mostly keeping their distance. Papa hums. There’s a chance the kid doesn’t even know what he’s saying.

“Um… ¿Hablas español?” 

The kid does look at him again, but he’s frowning this time. That’s probably a no then. Good thing too, his Spanish was lousy. 

“I’m asking if you understand me.”

Finally, there’s a response: the smallest of nods. Something Papa could have easily missed. Something he’s not entirely sure he really saw, could of just imagined it. It might have even been the kid glancing upwards.

It takes a moment for Papa to realise what the kid is looking at. A small smile settles onto his face as he reaches up, moving slowly, and takes off his helmet. 

The horns on his helmet are sharp and tall. Deathclaw horns. They’re supposed to scare people, tell them very quickly that the person wearing the helmet is not someone to be messed with. But this is a child.

“It’s okay.” He twists one of the horns so it’s more upright--must have gotten knocked in the fight with NCR, “They’re not mine, they’re someone else’s.”

He holds the helmet out to the kid, who after some hesitation, reaches forward and touches the point of the horn. At first, he snatches his hand away, looking down at his finger, the horn apparently sharper than expected. But the kid’s undeterred. He reaches forward again and runs a finger along one of the grooves. 

It’s a good sign. Maybe the heat had gotten to him and he’d taken Papa for a deathclaw or some other monster. But at least now he was more at ease.

It also gives Papa the opportunity to assess the situation. There’s no way of knowing how long this kid’s been laying out here. Nor does he know where he even came from. Not if this kid isn’t going to talk to him. Those things didn’t matter immediately however, what mattered most was that this kid was severely sunburnt, glossy with sweat, and skinnier than a pencil. The kid needed to get out of the sun and cool off.

Papa shifts his position very slightly so that he casts more of a shadow onto the kid, who’s too taken with the helmet to notice. He sets the helmet down and reaches for ‘ _his_ ’ pack. The letters N.C.R had been branded onto the canvas material pretty recently by his estimate, hasty. He’d ripped it out the arms of some young, wide eyed trooper back at that camp.

There’s no point sorting through a bag before taking it. You’re better off saving time and just swiping the whole thing before anyone has a chance to stop you. Khans can find a use in just about everything they find--even personal trinkets and notes.

He had heard the distinctive clink of glass and cans while walking along with it, coupled with the weight. Opening the pack up, he was hoping that they were just more glasses of whisky. 

Thankfully, it’s not. The trooper this belonged to was apparently sensible. A couple of books, a packed lunch, a few cans of prewar food, some magazines for those rifles they all carry, and something closer to what Papa was looking for: a bottle of nuka-cola.

“Do you like cola?” Papa asks as he plucks it from the bag and eyes the kid for a reaction. 

Almost immediately, the kid’s eyes light up, big and wide and watching the bottle. He licks his very chapped lips and Papa decided that’s the only answer he needs. 

He glances back at his Khans, “Got a bottle opener?” 

The Khans had all been keeping their distance, some playing lookout and others perching themselves on rocks to take the weight off their feet. All of them start patting themselves down to no avail. 

“Sorry, Papa.” The nearest one says. Papa waves them away, already putting the bottle’s cap between his teeth.

“‘S okay.” He’s pretty sure Regis has told him that if he keeps doing this with his teeth he’s not going to have them by the time he’s sixty, so that’s why he doesn’t default to it anymore. 

It’s still with practised ease that he manages to wrest the bottlecap off the glass and spit it into his hand. All the while the kid watches him with something between confusion and horror. Probably thought he was going to eat the glass or something. 

He inspects the drink quickly, checking for no bad smells or immediate signs of radiation. Hard to do without the equipment, but you could normally trust the food NCR soldier’s carried. The glass itself seemed clean enough, so Papa deemed it safe enough to pass over to the child.

At first, the kid shrinks away, thick black hair falling over his face. But his finds his resolve, creeping forward slowly and reaching out with tiny fingers. As soon as he wraps his hands around the glass, he snatches it away. Papa can’t say he’s surprised. He folds his hands together as the kid holds the bottle close to his chest and watches Papa--like he’s waiting for him to change his mind. 

Of course, Papa doesn’t. He sits back and waits.

It’s a shock how fast the kid’s demeanor changes. From meek and fearful one second to chugging the cola like a Khan trying to get wasted. Papa winces, maybe this was a bad idea.

“Easy cub, _easy_.”

The last thing he wants is this kid making himself sick or choke. On instinct, Papa leans forward again and reaches out for the bottle.

He barely gets close when the kid gasps and immediately chokes. Dropping the bottle and spilling the rest of the contents down himself as he tried to scramble backwards. Papa stops and backs up himself. 

After the kid’s done coughing, they’re back at square one. Staring at each other from a short distance and waiting for the other to make a move. 

Eventually, Papa does the thing that he probably should have done initially, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. Here--” 

He reaches for his belt and produces a canteen. Also stolen from the NCR, but not as recently as the cola. He pours out a cup of water and sets it on the ground between them. The kid watches him and this time doesn’t make a move towards it. Figures. That cola was really not going to help his skin.

Papa breathes a sigh out slowly, taking care not to look like he’s huffing in annoyance. Okay, so maybe just talking to the kid will probably help a bit more. 

“Are you lost?” Is as good a place to start as anywhere else.

The kid seems to almost go to say something, but instead sniffles and brings his knees back up to his chest, looking away. That could well be a yes, in Papa’s mind.

“Well, my scouts know this desert like the back of their hands. Anyway from here to the NCR back West.” Papa nods in the direction he knows the sun is heading--westward. The kid refocuses his attention onto him as he talks, “If you need help finding your family, we can do our best to get you home.”

Papa’s barely finished the sentence and the kid’s actually giving him a solid response. A violent shake of the head. His hair goes flying around. A firm and hard _no_ \--absolutely not.

Things slot together in Papa’s head, but it’s not hard to put two and two together when it’s like this. Flinching when an adult gets close and desperate not to be reunited with his family. It all makes sense.

The kid actually looks dizzy when he’s finally stopped shaking his head and looks fearfully up at Papa, tears in his eyes and rolling down his cheeks. If Papa wasn’t so sure he’d bolt at the first sign of movement, he could have reached out to the kid.

“I see...” Kids don’t deserve this life. The unforgiving nature of the world around them, everything from the people, the wildlife, the sun in the sky. Many didn’t survive, and those who did were often calloused by the harsh world around them. Papa knew he was one of those people.

It takes a lot to convince yourself a band of raiders is the right place for you to be. 

When he was a teenager he thought he understood the world. That it was _might is right_. That only the strong survived. That the father who had beaten him almost every day of his life was only dead because Papa had stopped being weak--had woken up to his own strength and turned the tables.

More specifically, he’d taken the shotgun down from his father’s mantle and blew the fucker’s head off.

At least in some circumstances, when the world is so unforgiving, the unforgivable can be rightly punished. 

What people needed when they got out of a situation like that, was something to cling to as they weathered the storm. For him it had been the New Khans. For this child?

Papa gives him a small, sad smile.

“Then maybe, cub, your real home has found you.”


End file.
